Every now and then, corporations decide to let their hearts grow three sizes bigger. Their gruesome smiles twist upwards and they fawn about with messages of peace and goodwill and being nicer to their employees. In my group, this time is called “Customer Service Week.” It doesn’t have much of anything to do with the customers, really, but I guess when they throw a few tiny niceties our way, we’re less inclined to openly hate the people who bother us all day long.

Yesterday there was a happy hour. I’m aware that most companies don’t allow their employees to drink at work, but in my office, it’s sort of encouraged. AT CERTAIN TIMES, people, at certain times. Don’t err’body be rushing to send me their resumes. Anyway, for 15 whole minutes yesterday, we were permitted to rise from our desks and drink beer while we pretended to socialize with people we probably scowl at every day for always using the handicapped stall in the bathroom.

Today, we were encouraged to wear comfortable clothes. This is a somewhat broad description, as we’re already allowed to wear jeans and nobody’s going to give you the business over wearing a hoodie if it’s a little chilly that day. But sneakers were allowed today! And so were sweatpants! And by the very broadest of definitions, kilts!

Yeah. Um, kilts. I didn’t wear a kilt. I didn’t wear sweatpants, either, because a) I’m not a stay-at-home mom and b) the only pair I own have a hole in the ass area. But I mostly didn’t wear a kilt because kilts are ridiculous*, both as a clothing option outside of Scotland and in offices everywhere. This means, of course, that only the most ridiculous people in my department were wearing their kilts today. Oh yes. I said that. PEOPLE. As in, more than one person.

These idiots. I’m all for subverting the rules and being a weirdo. At work, it’s kind of my thing. You thought I was normal, didn’t you? Aside from the tattoos and the tendency to use “motherfucker” like a comma, I seem like a big old square. Yeah, well. Come see me while I’m being a wage slave. Until recently, I was the weirdest one they had.

The weirdest guy didn’t last long. While I was training, I felt this bouncy sort of pressure on the back of my chair. Glancing over, I saw that he was rubbing his head on it. Everyone called him Lurch. Then he got another job and left.

The second weirdest guy (aka Kilt Guy 1) has a ponytail, owns numerous reptiles, and LARPS in his spare time. He showed up this morning wearing a kilt and a do’rag. The kilt was tartan. The do’rag was desert camo. Damn, girl, aint no one ever told you to remove one accessory before you leave the house?

The third weirdest guy (aka Kilt Guy 2) isn’t all that weird, actually. He’s very nice and does a decent job, but he’s friends with Kilt Guy 1 and is usually influenced by Kilt Guy 1’s misbehavior. He wore a kilt today, too, but not a do’rag. Oh, so he’s the classy one.

I don’t have a problem with personal expression and if kilts make you comfortable at work, then I guess they’re okay. But really? You read the e-mail about “comfortable yet appropriate for a professional environment” and thought a kilt was the best possible option? On what planet does this seem normal? (Yeah, Stephie, the part of the planet where Scotland is, ha ha ha.) And they wore T-shirts with their kilts, which is somehow, miraculously, I can’t even believe it, even more ridiculousthan the kilts on their own!

Like I said, express yourself all you want. If you feel manly in a kilt, then by all means, rock that shit wherever a kilt is necessary. But dude, I’m working here. I got shit to do. I don’t need to look over at you on your way to the bathroom and think about how I’m watching your ass bounce around inside your skirt as you walk.

Tomorrow, we are supposed to bring German food. That’s an FYI in case anyone wonders why I smell like a sour armpit after 5pm.

* Apologies to my cousin Kris, who clearly loves his kilt and, to my knowledge, only wears it when he’s on vacation. He’s one of those outdoorsy types (I think), so I assume he’s safely out of range of the more decently-attired public.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.